The Taxi
by CraZyPshyChoLadY
Summary: Sherlock goes out to watch John eat and has a little altercation with an irritated taxi driver. Companion piece to 'I bloody love nettles' but can be read as a stand alone. Pre Sherlon fluff and some John!TLC for Sherlock. One shot.


The Taxi – A Sherlock Fanfiction

Disclaimer: I do not own any recognisable characters mentioned herein or any canon plot lines. I also don't own the word Olympic, or any associated words or wording...because yes, they really are that touchy about it.

Dedicated to mememex3, who requested this story. Sorry it's VERY late. Oops. *embarrassed face*

Unbetaed and written at midnight, so any mistakes are mine alone.

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Summary: Sherlock goes out to watch John eat and ends up having a little altercation with a taxi driver. Companion piece to 'I bloody love nettles' but can be read as a stand-alone. Pre-Sherlon fluff.

I've always looked at taxi's suspiciously since the Affair in Pink. Sherlock just bounds into them like an over-excited child. It think he's secretly hoping for another serial killer in a moth-eaten cardigan to be behind the wheel, but so far, no such luck. Though I think (no, hope) that he might be a bit more cautious from now on...

It was a fairly quiet night. Sherlock had just sorted out a quick little case that day, one that would greatly embarrass several key members of parliament if the details got out. But I digress. He had just solved the case and was reaching for the spray paint when I came back from work. Since I quite like my eardrums intact, I chose to stop him before he ruined Mrs. Hudson's wallpaper again.

Having confiscated the aerosol, I tried to distract him. I suggested he read a book.

"Read them all."

I asked if he wanted to watch television and I got a derisive eye-roll in response. After taking a deep breath and pinching the bridge of my nose for a moment, I asked what **he** wanted to do.

"Kill Anderson."

*sigh*

"We've been over this Sherlock, you can't kill people just for being stupid."

"I could make it look like an accident. No-one could ever trace it back to us."

"That's what worries me. And when did I become an accomplice to your murderous whims?"

"When you started your blog. And stop looking so worried, if I were going to kill you I'd have done it by now."

"Thanks, I think. But great idea, browse the internet for a weird and wonderful murder."

"Already wrote a computer program that searches the internet at regular intervals and sends me a text if something potentially un-boring comes up."

"...See if you have any new texts."

"I'm BORED! Give me back your gun, I want to shoot something."

"You know I gave my bullets to Mrs. Hudson and asked her to hide them. I have no earthly idea where she put them."

"They're in a film canister in the leaflet draw, under a Chinese takeaway menu."

"Excellent plan. Let's go out for dinner."

"I'm too bored to eat."

"Well then you can watch me eat whilst telling me embarrassing details about everyone who's out of earshot."

"...Deal."

Having found Sherlock's coat (in the fridge) and scarf (behind the tv), we left the flat. After standing on the corner of Baker Street for ten minutes, during which Sherlock was only propositioned twice, we decided that taxi's were avoiding us, and started to walk to Angelo's. We had only gone two streets when a familiar black shape hove into view. As it pulled over, Sherlock began deducing things about the early-evening wanderers passing us.

"She has two dogs, a St. Bernard and a Chihuahua. Boring"

"Dull, having an affair with his gardener."

"Thinking of breaking up with his girlfriends. Predictable."

As we clambered into the taxi, he started whining like a petulant child about the lack of originality in the criminal classes these days. I just gave the address to the driver and sat back to watch the metropolis flashing past. Sherlock was still muttering his tirade against the boring murderers, finishing with:

"You can't even rely on thieves and con-men any more; the most interesting case we've had from them recently was that idiot who thought he could forge a Rembrandt using poster paints. It took me twenty seconds to deduce his location and another forty to text Dimmock. A whole minute of brain power wasted on that overgrown primordial sludge-dweller."

As he'd been ranting, I'd noticed the taxi driver tightening his grip on the wheel, but I assumed he was just cursing the appearance of yet more Olympic roadworks, which seem to be springing up everywhere nowadays. But suddenly he jerked the wheel sideways, pulled into the curb and got out. Sherlock seemed to return to reality at this and was about to start complaining again when his door was wrenched open and he was dragged bodily from the car.

The driver had grabbed him and already punched him to the ground by the time my brain caught up. He got a couple of kicks to Sherlock's ribs before I jumped him from behind and forced him to the ground. I kept him there with a carefully placed knee to the back while I rang the police. I quickly gave them the details and hung up, before extricating some handcuffs from my back pocket. I handcuffed his hands together around a lampost.

By then Sherlock had dragged himself to his feet, though he still looked a little shaky. I helped him over to a bench and started going through the usual concussion checks and mobility tests. He seemed to be ok, just in shock. I'd have to hunt up that orange blanket later. Just then a squad car arrived and I chucked the key to the handcuffs in the general direction of the nearest constable.

I gave the particulars to one of the officers, then started manoeuvring Sherlock into a position where I could support him without putting pressure on his ribs. We headed for home; Mrs. Hudson was at her book club, so I got Sherlock upstairs unhindered and settled him in his armchair. I fetched some ice wrapped in a tea towel and a damp cloth.

Whilst I got the blood off his split lip, Sherlock held the ice to his ribs and told me that the taxi driver was the older brother of the forger, and had been seeking vengeance on whoever was responsible for putting his little brother in prison.

"I see. And when did you figure that out then?"

"When we got into the cab. The surname was the same, plus they both have very distinctly shaped earlobes, which can only be an inherited trait. Child's play."

*sigh*

"If you knew that when we got in, why did you start talking about catching his brother?"

"I was bored. And... I knew you'd look after me."

"...Well, I definitely always do that. I'll always be here for you Sherlock."

"*cough* Yes, well, good. After all, I'd be lost without my blogger."

THE END

A.N. Hi! I'm alive, although only just. Lot of stuff has happened this year, a close family member went a little loopy, I took my GCSEs in a year, including Latin (big shout out to anyone who is taking/has taken that, it's awful. I love it to bits, but I haven't the foggiest clue what a pluperfect passive participle is.), redecorated A LOT, had both of my brothers get engaged (Woo!) and all the while I've been trying to find the perfect pair of Dr. Martens. I'm getting back into the swing of writing now, so hopefully it won't be several months before I'm back again. Hope you enjoyed this, please review if you've got a minute. Bye bye and have a lovely day/night!


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